


Beholden

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-01
Updated: 2006-03-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8074015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: rip and Malcolm try to start a relationship amid the damage. Jon and Trip try to recover their balance as officers. Takes place during 3.19 "The Forgotten." (07/11/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers, 1.03 "Fight Or Flight," 3.10 "Similitude," 3.19 "Damage," 3.20 "The Forgotten," 3.21 "E2."  
  
Sorry for the long delay. Other parts of this series should be up pretty soon. Very detailed spoilers for 3.19 "The Forgotten."  
  
Beta readers: Akin and Cha Oyese Tempest Thrain  


* * *

> I've been you mother, I've been your father  
> who can ask me for more?  
> I've been your sister, I've been your mistress  
> maybe I was your whore  
> who can ask me for more?
> 
> Superstar  
> I've tried to educate your childish heart  
> I made your bed  
> and I was in it when your faith was dead  
> poor donee  
> what are you gonna try to be?  
> where are you gonna go without me now?
> 
> â€”The Cardigans (Been It)

* * *

There was a time when I would do anything to feel his skin against mine again. But the second I had it, I pushed it away. I guess I just wanted to see him alive. Nothing could ever stop me from caring about him—wanting to know that he's safe. But that's just not enough anymore.

I had to be honest with him. Jon and I have never lied to each other, even if betrayal isn't beyond us. I would have been lying if I allowed him to make love to me without telling him. The thing is, I know Jon, and Jon is the kind of guy that's used to being in control. He is the captain of a goddamn starship, after all. So, when someone he thinks he has control over -like me- does something that he doesn't expect, he goes from shocked to angry in a pair of seconds.

I'm not saying that Jon is some sort of domineering, manipulative, jerkoff. I would never be with him if he was, and he probably couldn't stand to be with someone as unpredictable as I am. But his job has taught him that control equals safety, and that safety is a priority. And I've made him feel pretty goddamn vulnerable, pulling the rug out from under his feet when he needed my support more than anything else. But I couldn't lie. The moment we start lying to each other, our relationship will truly be over.

So, I could've predicted his anger, and I _should've_ predicted my own reactions to it. I can't say that I didn't mean those things, because I've been wanting to say them for a long time now, but I didn't mean for it to all come out like that, at what seems like our darkest moment.

I've messed things up so fucking badly...I don't even know where to begin. I've hurt Jon by turning my back on him when he needs me most; I've hurt Malcolm by giving him a taste of something that's not really my right to give; and I've hurt myself by destroying the two relationships I depend on most, out of selfishness.

Jon and I have had more than our fair share of fights. It's nothing less than would be expected of two stubborn and outspoken people like us. We were both born and groomed to be in charge, so it has sometimes been a battle of wills, but we've long learned to overcome it. Normally the larger of our personal fights end with him storming out and disappearing for a few days, and me ringing up my sister and crying to her about my problems. But Lizzie's dead, and Jon's not going to come back to me with an already prepared apology and speech, ready for a stellar round of make-up sex.

And I still have no idea how I'm going to go on without him. The captain has returned, relieving me of the burden of command, but the gaping emptiness of his leaving remains. Will I ever feel whole again?

I'm so lost in thought that I drop the plasma torch I've been using to finish the installation on the new power coil. The guilt is crushing. I'm beginning to see how Jon feels. There's no one and nothing to relieve the pressure and I just need to get it out of my head for just a second so that I can do my duty. The crew needs me, and they're the only people I care about that I haven't betrayed yet.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" A part of me is startled by his quiet approach, but the rest of me is too unconcerned with trivialities -like what's going on around me- to care. I don't need to look up to see the concerned look in his eyes, or the hesitance in the clipped British accent. He's determined to have this 'talk.' Doesn't he see? I've leaned on him too much already. I can't make a habit of it or I'll smother him with the weight of my grief. I can't afford to be further indebted, because I don't have anything to pay him back. Jon has taken all that I am.

He tries to get me comfortable with a brief discussion of the phase cannons, which we both know Hess could've taken care of as well, if not better. I make some sarcastic comment—the same defense we both relied on at the hostile beginning of what would soon grow into a deep friendship.

It's funny, again, it's not Malcolm's stuttering demands that I let it all out, or his concern over the shake I've begun to notice in my hands, but the sheer frustration of it all, that draws the confession out of me. "Jonny and I broke up."

The sympathy in his voice is sickening. _I don't want any more of your sympathy, goddamn it! I don't want you to support me! I'll just hurt you—if you don't hurt me first._

"Not your fault." I try to sound reassuring. I know how Malcolm blames himself for things, and the last thing I want is for someone else to have to suffer this same kind of guilt. I've already been enough of a burden. "I just...I wanted to do the right thing." I couldn't lie to him. Malcolm looks as though he understands. He wouldn't have been comfortable with a secret like that hanging between us either. "I was so glad that he was alive. But that doesn't change what happened. Nothing could ever make up for it." I'm suddenly aware that there are things you don't recover from. There are wounds that kill, damage that cannot be repaired. They say that love conquers all, but love just wasn't enough. "We're never going to be able to..." Despite the overwhelming desperation—the feeling that thing will never get better, I can't bring myself to say it out loud.

"God, Malcolm, I need..." The words are out of my mouth before I even have a chance to stop them. Why am I so selfish? So dependent? What right do I have to ask for anything, after causing so much hurt? But I see the expectation in his eyes and know that I'll just hurt him more if I stop now. I sigh in resignation. "I don't know what I need anymore."

He reaches out to me, and I can't stop myself. I'm not good a being alone. I don't think I _can_ be alone. Even as I'm busy cursing myself for my weakness, I cling to Malcolm as though he's the last warmth in the universe. I can't seem to stop my hands as they roam down his sculpted body to his firm buttocks. The anger and desperation are flowing through me like a conduit.

A part of me wants to punish him for his disgusting show of sympathy, his misjudgment. He's the goddamn chief of security, shouldn't he spot danger when he sees it? At the same time, I want to give him what he wants—that desire in his eyes showed me what he wants, and that's me. I want him to take me, to destroy me, control me, so that there's nothing left to hurt.

I trust him. I just want to disappear or have him rip a hole through me, and relieve the overwhelming pressure of all this guilt. "Fuck me." It's not a request.

He begins to make a half-hearted protest. I can see the thinly veiled lust in his eyes; he wants this as much as I do. His hand is on my chest, a firm pressure. I want him to push until it bruises. I want him to use me, abuse me until I look as ugly as I feel.

"What have we got to lose?" I mean what I say. I don't have anything left. Things couldn't get any worse. If we both want this, it can't be wrong, right? I'm lost, and this seems like the only way out. At least it's a step. I can't stand not doing anything, slowly rotting from the inside-out of this pervasive guilt. When he's still resistant to all my charms -even the seductive submission I know turns him on- I resort to my last option, "Tell me you don't want to do this for me." 'For _me_ ' I'm being selfish again, and I hate myself for it. But when all is said and done, maybe there won't be a me left to hate. I can only hope.

That does it. I can always count on Malcolm's compassion, his desire to do his duty—to protect and serve, if not on his lust. Only a few more seductive words later, he's in me. I feel my insides ripping apart and it's glorious.

The pain is liberating, shaking me out of this limbo of guilt and confusion. It is so persistent, so tangible...it gives me something to cling to, so I can forget about everything for a moment. My world is the harsh pants of his breathing, the burning pain spreading like a wildfire through my core, the bruising grip of his hands, the harsh steel against my cheek, the blood red ire of the lighting. For a second, I'm free.

* * *

What do I owe Malcolm? Everything. Nothing. He's selfless given me all of himself, helped me through my darkest moment. But Malcolm knows that it was a one-time deal. He knew that I wasn't in a state to act responsibly. He could have turned me down, but he didn't. He knew what he was getting himself into and he did it anyway. There are no promises, no contracts for future expectation. I owe him nothing even though I want to give something back. But what do I have to give that isn't already promised?

I promised Jon everything. I'm his to eternity. And I owe him still more. I owe him ten years where he brought me more happiness than I could ever quantify. I owe him all of me, because he's made me the man I am today. I wouldn't be here on Enterprise if Jon hadn't helped me focus my easily distracted mind—to tone down my willful disregard for the bureaucracy long enough to play the game that gets people assignments like this.

But it's not just the job; it's who I am. I doubt Malcolm has a clue that the man he fell in love was just as much his captain as the man himself. If Malcolm had seen me that shy yet impulsive Lieutenant that Jon took under his wing, I doubt he'd even recognize me. Not that I wasn't well liked back then, I just never really deepened my connections with anyone. I had my family, I had my engines, what else did I need? There would always be people in my life that I could count on for a good time or to bail me out in a jam. I seemed to attract them with little effort, but it was Jon that taught me to look for more in people - to pay attention to the little nuances and subtle interactions, to say what's needed not what I want. I still have my slips, but I'm a better man.

Hell, if I had met Malcolm back in the day, I wouldn't have looked up from my engine schematics long enough to even notice him. He's good at fading into the background, but Jon showed me that the most beautiful things are usually lurking just in front of you; you just have to make the effort to see them. Yeah, I spent most of the first year I knew Malcolm arguing with him, but I knew from the start that he was someone I wanted to know, even if the only successful method of getting him to open up involved screaming myself hoarse.

So I'm the man that could possibly be with Malcolm because of Jon. Isn't it unfair that Malcolm should benefit from the fruits of Jon's labor? Then again, hasn't Jon forsaken all his privileges? I meant what I said. I don't think I can do this right now. I can't deal with his problems along with my own. I need someone to support me, to hold me through it. To destroy me, if need be. Jon's too lost to do that. I might owe him everything, but don't I owe Malcolm still more? He's given me the ability to go on, to survive. And that's the most basic gift of all.

Then I hear a slight cough, and realize that Jon's standing behind me as I check the stats on the engine with its new warp coil. When things are damaged, we find replacements. And, sometimes, they fit.

He asks me some mundane question about how things are running. His eyes are cold and his voice almost horse. Even though I wish I could distance myself from all his problems -save myself from going down with his ship- I know I can't. Even if our personal lives are irrevocably destroyed, there are still our duties as fellow officers.

"You did the right thing." It's a peace offering. He helped me hold on, do my duty, for ten years. Now it's time I returned the favor. I can still be the supportive first officer he always trusted me to stay, even if I can't be the lover I'd thought I'd stay for even longer.

Honestly, I don't know if it was right; I don't trust myself to make that kind of decision. I know people, but I don't know anything about making these kinds of the decisions—the tough decisions, the ones that only Jon has the strength to make, and perhaps Malcolm too. They would willingly sacrifice their souls for this mission. I would, but I would never know how. But I know people. And as surely as I know that I still love Jon with all my heart, I know that he can't do this alone. I know what he needs to hear. "Those people'll be okay. They'll get home." I try to put as much confidence as I can into my voice, even though we both know that only God -or perhaps these beings that can tell the future- can say that with any kind of certainty. But I can see it in his eyes, beside the world-weary resignation: he believes me. He still loves me enough to believe me.

I feel as though there's more to say. I know that, if things had turned out differently, I'd be holding him in my arms, rocking him gently against me, telling him that everything will be fine—that we could get through this together. But he's partway across the room - he might as well be a thousand light-years away. It's like looking at a ghost, a constant reminder of that dull ache in my chest.

A brief look passes between us, and we understand that we're doing what's right, even if it's not what we want. It was arrogant of us to assume that our relationship could survive stresses like these. He breaks it off as he turns to order the ship to warp.

I stare at him, gripping the handrail until my knuckles are white. I have that feeling that I'm drowning again: my head is spinning. The world seems so impossibly large, stretched and distorted by his distance from me. He turns back, and I see something catch—all of the love and concern I thought I'd lost forever flowing back into his eyes. I can almost forget that anything has happened with that look—almost. He rushes forward and is back on the platform with me before I can finish blinking. His hand grips my arm tight, and only with his solid weight supporting me do I realize that I was swaying.

His voice is far away and his form blurry, but I can make out the concerned panic in his tone, "Trip? Are you alright?"

"Fine." A year ago he would have chided me about sounding too much like Malcolm. It's not really funny anymore.

"Did you see Phlox when we got back?" Of course not. The first priority was getting warp drive functioning and he knows it. He turned a blind eye when I headed straight for engineering. Did he think I was going to take that coil with me to Sickbay?

Passively, I notice my hands shake. "Had to get the coil installed. He's got his hands full anyway."

Jon sighs exasperatedly, "You've got to look after your health. Do you know how worried..." He catches himself, though _I_ wasn't about to tell him that he no longer has the right to be worried about me. Something in his face hardens. It's the same look he had when he told me about Sim. "I can't afford to have my chief engineer collapse in the middle of a crisis."

Normally, I would have told him that we _are_ in the middle of a crisis, but I'm not sure I have that right anymore either. He seems a little surprised at my lack of response, but looks away before I can determine whether or not he cares. His arm is wrapped around my waist, pulling me toward the exit.

His grip is the same: tight but gentle. His smell is the same mix of spice and the hint of sweat as always. His arms still feel right around me. I relish in this small intimacy, buried deep in the duty of a commanding officer seeing to the health of his subordinate.

He leaves me in the doctor's capable hands, with a slight pat on the shoulder, and empty encouragements to feel better. He still looks concerned, but I'm not sure I can kid myself into believing that he wants to stay as he turns on his heel and walks out the door, not bothering to wait for a diagnosis.

* * *

"We're going to succeed, to accomplish out mission, for everyone on earth that's relying on us, and for the 18." There was a time when I believed every word that came out of his mouth. That was when we first fell in love - the smoochy hand-holding phase when your lover can do no wrong. Then I slowly regained my perspective on things. I began to question him as an officer first. He knew not to argue with me on questions of engineering, but I soon began to debate some of his methods of dealing with the Vulcans, and later some of our personal decisions. Still, this is the first time Jon has said something that I want to believe in, but can't. I put on a proud and mournful face for the crew, though. It's my duty to believe in him, if nothing else.

After an intense moment of silence -not nearly enough to pay the remembrance that is due to those we lost- Jon turns and walks out of the cargo bay. T'Pol and I follow him down the corridor and into his ready room. I can feel her presence beside me, her eyes on me, the entire way there. None of us speaks.

He tells us about the planned meeting with Degra and I make some comment about it being an ambush. I know he's already made his decision. He wouldn't have stolen that warp coil if he hadn't, so I don't know why I'm bothering to bring up my concerns—as valid as they may be. I'm sure that if I was him right now, the last thing I'd want to hear is that I've just destroyed my ethics and condemned another ship to the harsh necessities of the Expanse in order to send us barreling full speed into a trap. Still, I refuse to believe that I said it out of anger. Jon has always encouraged me to say anything concerning his command decisions, assuming they're not said in front of the crew. Has that privilege been revoked?

He'll look anywhere but at me, as though he doesn't want to be reminded that his chief engineer inhabits the same body as his - his what? His ex? Somehow I still can conceive of myself as anything other than his lover, his partner, his best friend. "I've made my decision. We've got a lot of work to do. I suggest we get to it."

T'Pol bolts for the door like she can't stand to be in same room as the two of us. I don't blame her. The emotional current between us is running pretty damn high, even if she might not fully understand why. I'm about to follow her when he stops me. "Commander." I knew I couldn't escape that easily. He's probably going to tell me not to question his orders like that again. The last thing he needs right now is doubt; I understand that. The doubt that I might not have done to right thing when I walked away from him is enough to eat me alive; I can't even begin to imagine the doubt of questioning every decision when the life your entire species is at stake.

Here it comes, halfway between mournful and the resentful punishment it really is. "Crewman Taylor was one of yours, wasn't she?"

I mumble something about her being an EPS control specialist, barely hiding my surprise that he could even bring himself to care, let alone bother me about it. She wasn't a necessary component of this ship, even though she sure did help. She's replaceable, like the goddamn warp coil. And Jon doesn't seem to care about anything that he can replace anymore. At least I can find comfort in the fact that I'm not—that Jon would murder to keep this particular cog doing his duty in the machine. Perhaps comforts not the right word...a satisfying irony would be better.

"I'd like you to write a letter to her family." Why now? I don't need this. I can't afford to dwell on fried nuts and bolts. Can't he see that I'm barely holding it together as it is?

"Um, she worked on Rostov's team. I can ask him." I hope he catches the warning—the weakness, in my tone. _Back off, Jonny._

He gives me some clichd speech about it meaning more coming from me. But it doesn't mean anything! Nothing's going to change the fact that their daughter is dead. She might be replaceable to Jon, but she's not to them. I'd rather stick to things I have a chance of repairing, like this battered ship. In medicine they call it triage. Jon's been doing it for a while now, he shouldn't condemn _me_ for it. He can't order me to have the sympathy he ceased to feel a long time ago.

"I'm barely holding the ship together; I don't have time to write a letter."

"It doesn't have to be long." He barks it out, making it seem as though I'm a horrible person for wanting to keep the damn ship from falling apart. Only now will he finally look at me, "Her family deserves to know what happened to her."

Family. What does he know about family? This crew is the only family he has, and he's already betrayed us. A family doesn't have a right to know what happened. A family has a right to grieve. I didn't have the chance to know what my sister was doing the second the blast consumed her—whether or not she was scared or in even a split second of pain. I didn't have the luxury the Taylors have—knowing that their loved one died for something important. I don't even have the luxury to mourn her or any of the eighteen properly. But I can't argue with him. I'm too tired to argue with him anymore. "Understood."

"Just remember me, is that asking so much?"

"Yes."

"Why?" That question is scarier than dreams of monsters, of bodies hanging from the ceiling like we saw only a few weeks after the start of our mission, of seeing my sister vaporized before my eyes.

Why? They say the future is enough to terrify—that people cannot stand the unknown, that they can't stand to change. But it's the past that scares me. If only I could drop the burden of these memories, then I would be able to face the future, unafraid that it would be different than the joy of the past, or that it wouldn't be an end of the suffering caused by that very past.

I wake up and turn the light on, wiping the sleep out of my eyes and feeling the chill of the night's cold sweat dripping down my brow. It was only a dream, but the question remains: why?

I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel a cool hand trace down my spine. It's rough but somehow delicate, and utterly unfamiliar. I turn to find sleepy gray eyes looking up at me. "Are you alright, Trip?"

"Fine. Just a bad dream."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No. The Doc's ordered four hours sleep. I don't want to disappoint him."

"When this is all over, you'll tell me. Won't you?" He massages the tension in my shoulders. I like this. If I had awoken alone, as Jon left me for so many lurid nights, I probably wouldn't have been able to get back to sleep. But the simple comfort of a touch is enough to relax me into meditative thought if not fully into sleep.

I lean back against him, letting him support my head on his shoulder. "I'll tell you everything. I promise." And I mean it too. I tell him about my sister and about my secret life with Jon, before Enterprise. When this is all over, I'll be strong enough to face the past and remember, with Malcolm at my side.

But even when Malcolm looks at me with boundless love in his eyes, I can't help but think about Jon. When Malcolm's hands are roaming over my skin, I can't stop the memories of more familiar and less hesitant touches. But I never trusted Jon to hurt me the way I've let Malcolm. He's always been passionate and sometimes rough, but never destructive. Perhaps I never trusted Jon to hurt me, because I knew that he was capable of truly hurting me, beyond just these scrapes of the body.

Even though I keep telling myself that Jon's dead, there's still a small part of me that looks at him with the same love of a decade ago. If he's dead, then my ability to love has died with him. But what does it matter? It's Malcolm's name I say now. It's Malcolm I need, not Jon. Jon can no longer give me what I need.

Funny, I still don't know what that is. Is it love? No, there's still a part of Jon that loves me. What about passion? Comfort? Support? Friendship? Attention?

I just don't know.

* * *

T'Pol is talking about our database and how it had been erased. I don't see how even someone with her Vulcan calm could bring themselves to talk to a monster like that, responsible for the deaths of seven million. Then again, Jon's not even a Vulcan, and he manages. He seems more and more distant these days. He's not hiding his disgust like he used to when we worked with the Vulcans. He doesn't seem disgusted at all.

I've been quiet up until now, trying to quell the rage that has caused my vision to blur nearly red. I haven't even been concentrating on repairs, and have almost singed my fingers twice. But that last comment was the straw the broke the camel's back. "The pounding your ships gave us didn't help much." I snap sarcastically.

His lack of response only serves to increase my rage. I can't help it, even though the officer in me is already boohooing my lack of 'proper restraint.' It's funny, it was Jon who taught me these things, but the inner officer sounds a hell of a lot like Malcolm. _This sonofabitch actually has the ability to help us on our mission._

His ability to help, I don't doubt, but how am I supposed to trust him after he killed all those people? After he killed my sister? "When we slipped through your detection grid, we got a look at the weapon you're building: an impressive piece of engineering. Hell, it'd take a thousand ships like Enterprise to blow up an entire planet. You know, I'd like to see the telemetry from the probe you launched against Earth."

T''Pol practically yells at me, but I don't hear her words. It was over the second I opened my mouth. Once I set the ball rolling, I can't stop myself. It feels so liberating to finally face this. I couldn't sustain the grand desire for revenge, or the detached intellectual ideal of this mission—of a future of peace. But suddenly, I can curse a man, not fate, or meddlers from the future, or even a species. I've found a focal point at which to direct the pain I've kept locked inside for so long, and the relief is nearly overwhelming, even as this release seems to fuel the emotional fire.

"I assume you were watching the attack." I stand. "Calculating the blast yields. Boy, you must have been pretty damn excited. I mean, that beam cut one hell of a swath through Florida. That's the name of one of the places you destroyed: Florida."

"Commander." T'Pol says quietly. I know she's only trying to help me, but I shoot her an angry glare. _Don't get in my line of fire, sweetheart._

"Did you actually see the cities burning? The houses? The people being vaporized? You know, I had a sister there." A sister who dedicating her life to teaching children when she could have been so much more successful...A sister who's potential boyfriends I had to intimidate to keep them from flocking to her...A sister who held me when I had my first real break-up...A sister who used to stay up late at night talking with me and Jon and beating us at drinking games...A sister who I loved more than anyone else. She was an irreplaceable part to me, and the man who murdered her actually has the balls to stare at me in one intense moment of sympathy before looking away. It's only my training that's keeping me from clocking him in the jaw.

"Commander!" T'Pol reprimands. It's more than just a warning, an order; she's actually _angry._ Well, that makes two of us.

"How are the repairs coming?" He shouts it. It's not really the order that gets to me. T'Pol just ordered me several times. It's the condemnation in his voice, the long-suffering complaint—as though I'm just another problem that he doesn't need right now.

I manage to hold my peace, but I send him warning with every nerve of my body. Jon knows how close I am to exploding. "Jes need a few more minutes, Cap'n."

He guides Degra to his ready room, as though nothing has happened. Jon has always been there to defend me, or at least talk to me - or yell at me until I'm forced to face whatever problem he thinks I have, but all he does is turn a cold gaze on me and say, "Let's stick to the job at hand." It's worse than an order, or the condemnation even: he just doesn't care about anything but the job at hand. There's a cold fury, but not a single drop of sympathy or even a care as to why I'm hurting.

I keep telling myself that the Jon I fell in love with is dead. It would be better if he was, but I still feel that cold glint in his eyes like an icy blade cutting through my heart.

"Aye, Sir," I pretend astonishment, as though that's what I was doing all along, with complete insincerity. Jon just narrows his gaze. Telling me that, even if we're over, he can see right through me. But if he could truly see right through me, he'd be giving this monster his due for his crimes, not giving him the goddamn grand tour!

"The captain is trying to gain Degra's trust," T'Pol snaps. Acting like the queen of the universe again, pronouncing her judgment down from on high. It's easy for her. She doesn't have to live on this emotional tidal wave. I wish I could just turn it off—not feel like drowning in one desperate act after another. I feel as though I'm slipping and every time I try to grab a hold of something I just drag it down with me. I know I'm not really being fair to T'Pol. Something's going on with her too. Somewhere, deep down, I know she's right and that she needs me too, but I can't bring myself to care anymore.

It's just too much. First that business with Sim, then Jon going down to Azati Prime, then Malcolm...oh, God, Malcolm. I still don't know where we stand...and then a reminder of Lizzie's death. I'm not superman. There's only so much I can take.

* * *

I stare into the angry green of the fire. It looks exactly the way I feel, a concentrated flare of heat spilling out from an otherwise perfect shielding. I know there small rivulets of nuance to be found in the twisted green depths, but from afar it looks almost calm, a perfectly formed column of hate. I would be so easy to step into the center of that storm, let its rage swallow mine and drown all this pain. But I can't. The mission needs me. Isn't that what Jon said when he created Sim? He died for me; I couldn't just throw my life away after his sacrifice. My savior and my prison guard.

Then Jon's voice comes over the comm both reminding me of my pain and the fact that Malcolm's suit is overheating. Concern for my friend—no, lover—brings me back from the edge of the abyss. "Malcolm, get back in the airlock," I order. Of course, he doesn't listen. I knew he wouldn't listen the second he volunteered to go with me. I saw the look in his eyes, as though I needed him to keep me from doing something stupid. He's become even more protective, especially now that he knows something's bothering me that I won't discuss with him.

But how am I supposed to talk to him about it? He's got enough to deal with as it is. I'm already leaning on him so much, I can't bring myself to lay this on him too?

I've finally got all of the valves purged and I call to Malcolm to do his part. It's only seconds before the fire has disappeared. I wish my own emotions were that easily dealt with. "Nice work Malcolm." When he doesn't respond, or even move, I start to panic. I'm such a selfish bastard, the first thing I think about is how I can't deal with losing him too—that I can't go on without him. I may not be in love with him, but that doesn't diminish the need. I beginning to think that need is stronger than love. For the instinct to survive is supposed to trump all.

*Malcolm, I need you to do this for me: I need you to live.* "Tucker to Doctor Phlox. Meet us in the airlock."

Malcolm feels so light in the empty void of space—like another ghost. Even when he shakes himself awake halfway to the airlock -flailing wildly and not really understanding what's going on- I'm not sure he's really here. Have I somehow made Malcolm another casualty of my own private war?

I want to whisper words of love to him, even though I couldn't be sure if there would be any truth to them. I want to hold him and comfort him—return a little of all that he's given me. The only thing that stops me is the fact that Jon is monitoring urgently from the bridge.

Despite his struggles, I manage to get Malcolm to calm enough to make it through the airlock, where Phlox and a group of med-techs pull him out of his suit. As the adrenaline runs down I realize that I'm not really that much better off. My body aches from the strain and my nerves are frayed down to the last thread.

"We need to get his body temperature down. Let's get him to sickbay," Phlox says, managing to give me a slight reassuring look as he exits. At least I haven't killed my lover. Yet.

I'm ready to collapse on my feet. The cold of the suit room is refreshing, but it's almost too cold. I find my muscles shuddering and cramping from the abrupt change in temperature. I'm looking across the room through a haze of dizziness and relief that Malcolm's going to survive, standing on my last leg.

I wish he would come over here to help hold me up, but Jon just looks angry. I'm not sure it's his general anger at the situation, anger at me for somehow failing him, or a general overprotective anger stemming from the injury of a member of his 'flock.'

"I hope he'll be alright," the murderer Jon has dragged along with him says. I can't believe Jon let him in here. It's nothing less than a dishonor to allow this man to see Malcolm so vulnerable and hurt. He'd hate to think Jon let the Xindi see even our slightest weakness. Not only is it a tactical mistake, it's an embarrassment.

I'm quick to defend the dishonor. As if this man even cares. He's trivializing how close we were to losing yet another life in this futile war by daring to pretend compassion. Did he somehow forget that he was planning to destroy our entire world?! "What's one more dead human to you?"

"Trip!" Jon yells at me. How dare he? He doesn't care about Malcolm either. He'd probably be glad to have him out of the way. He's just as expendable as Taylor and Smith and Kumata and all of the other people we've had to sacrifice for this mission. It doesn't matter that Malcolm is important to _me_ —that he's given me what Jon can't. Jon has Major Hayes; he doesn't need Malcolm anymore. I shoot him a glare.

"You had no problem killing seven million of us but seven million and one is too much for you to stomach."

"That's enough." Now he's dulled his outrage to a command. He knows that even if I've stopped respecting him as a man, I damn well better respect him as a captain.

I can't resist one last sarcastic comment. Not even duty can stop me now. "I guess even Xindi have their limits."

"I _said,_ 'that's enough.'" Now he's angry in that wounded-animal sort of way. It's the kind of tone he gets when I've disappointed him, but he doesn't want me to know that I've gotten to his pride. As though it actually pains him that I don't care what he says anymore—that my pain is more important to me than his. It's his fault I'm even standing here right now; he should take some of the responsibility.

I'm actually shaking now. Again, only this flood of weariness and the accompanying numb feeling, are enough to halt my tirade. "Aye, Sir."

I don't know what hurts more: the pain of meeting the man that killed seven million of my people and following the order to do nothing about it or the fact that Jon is the one that gave the order. Isn't he supposed to understand? He's the one that failed to comfort me—to help me cool this pervasive anger; it would be the least he could do to allow me to release that anger. But he's proven a thousand times in these past months that he doesn't care enough to help me through this. Doesn't he know that he's the only person that could ever quell these raging emotions?

The murderer stops as he's walking out the door. For a second I think he's going to turn and try and say something to me. The officer in me hopes he won't, because I don't think he can restrain the brother who wants to utterly annihilate the man who killed his sister. Luckily for all involved, he walks away.

* * *

I'm getting tired of waking up in sickbay and to Phlox's wide smile. I think I've actually had a few nightmares about it, which makes it even worse when I'm disoriented from some injury or another to awake with it looming over me, ready to swallow me.

"I had the strangest dream," I mumble, as Phlox helps me sit. I'm sore all over and I've got that familiar headache: phase pistol set to stun. I sigh, "I dreamed that I had a son...and he had pointy ears...and he shot me." I try to rub the cobwebs out of my brain through my eyes.

"I'm afraid it wasn't a dream, Commander," Phlox says cheerfully. "I'm still analyzing Lorian's amazing genetic structure. A fine piece of work, if I don't say so myself."

Okay...I had a son; I can accept that. My son shot me; I can accept that too, even though I'm still a little -no, make that 'a lot'- sore. I had a son with T'Pol; I can even wrap my mind around that, despite the messy biology. I was married to T'Pol; there's the problem.

I guess it makes sense, in a weird sort of way. I'm T'Pol's closest friend, especially now that Jon has abandoned us both. T'Pol is a woman. We needed to have a many men sleep with women as possible to have a generational ship. That about sums it up. I guess it would be pretty hard to explain to a kid why his father isn't married to the only other pointy-eared person onboard. And I would have done anything for my son—I don't doubt that.

The problem is, the whole thing is just too damn logical. As T'Pol has told me a thousand times: I'm not a very logical person. I'm an 'irrational, emotional human,' not a Vulcan. That means only one of two things happened: 1. I somehow became very logical. Which means this numb empty feeling never went away. And that's a pretty scary thought. 2. I actually wanted to be with T'Pol. Not Jon, not Malcolm, but T'Pol. Now I love T'Pol, don't get me wrong. I'd give my life for hers in an instant, but how much of me had to die before I could survive a marriage with a Vulcan? Or perhaps that part of me is already dead.

But that's not what worries me the most about this screwed up little past/future. I'm not even sad that Jon found his own little alien babe in which to sew his seed. That logical 'for the good of the mission' crap is Jon's raison d'tre these days. And the captain must set a good example for the crew...Besides, I know Jonathan Archer, and I know who helped raise my son after I died. Lorian may have had my accent and T'Pol's ears, but he had Jon's words. In a twisted way, our dream of making a child in our image was fulfilled. He even showed Jon's amazing lack of ethics in a crunch.

No, what really worries me is the fact that Malcolm ended up alone. Malcolm is my crutch in the present, the only one I can lean on. But what about the future? If today continues into tomorrow, I'm going to leave Malcolm alone. I'm going to abandon him but worm my way into his heart so he can't find anyone else. I can already feel myself doing it. I'm pulling him in, desperately trying to play the role. I'm trying to make him fall in love with me! Because I need a love like his. But I can't love him back. The future proves that I'll never really be able to fully return his feelings, because this lifeless part of me that has forced me to choose my lovers based on logic and need is never going to go away. I'm going to be stuck not being able to fall in love with anyone other than Jon until the day I die.

Malcolm doesn't deserve this. He's been nothing but selfless. I thought that just because he wants it, this is the right thing to do. By now I should know that doing what people want and what's best for them is not the same thing, more often than not. I love Malcolm, but I'll never be in love with him. But I love him enough to want him to be happy, and being with me is never going to make him happy.

It's funny, I'd never thought I would hear myself say this -considering how I always want to beat the shit out of that temporal meddler Daniels every time I even get the idea he's said something along these lines- but I have to consider the future.

T'Pol always tell me that emotions are temporal—that what makes me hopping mad in the present might be what I regard as my savior in the future. Logic, on the other hand, is supposed to be permanent. If you know a future situation, you can make logical decisions about it today that will stay logical tomorrow. While T'Pol might sometimes be right on that one, I still believe that emotion is the language of the future. Emotion, like that foggy crystal ball, is a predictor of future happiness. Sometimes it predicts wrong, but you can never logic out what you think will make you happy.

Logic dictates that I'll be happier in the future with the man who has never betrayed me or caused me pain in the past, but emotion tells me a single thing: I love Jon; I will always love Jon, no matter how much he hurts me. And a future without him, will be a desperate one for us all. I don't really need time-travelers to know that.

Even if Jon can't seem to see the future beyond the fact that we might all die tomorrow, I know that if I'm going to die tomorrow, he's the only one who I want in my arms tonight.

The good thing about seeing your future, however, is knowing how you can change it.


End file.
